


This is real

by Insidious1604



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, POV Harry Potter, POV Tom Riddle, POV Voldemort, Pining, Some Humor, not a oneshot anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 11:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insidious1604/pseuds/Insidious1604
Summary: Voldemort goes to Hogwarts in disguise, planning to get into the Savior's good graces and steal Order of the Phoenix secrets. He wasn't planning to fall in love in the process.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this prompt on Tumblr AGES ago, and so wrote this. Why? Why I am writing this when I have like 200,000 words to get through for my other fic? Whyy?
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :)

He hadn’t expected Potter’s reaction; it was as if he’d seen a ghost. Voldemort glanced down at himself, only to affirm what he already knew. He looked every bit the handsome Slytherin heir that Tom Riddle had been at age sixteen. Of course, Potter didn’t know this. Potter should have been honoured to have such an obviously significant individual talk to him, let alone look at him.

 

Voldemort’s pride felt a little wounded.

 

He ignored this. He smiled the way he remembered, the coy twitch of the lips Voldemort had been so familiar with as a teenager.

 

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Tom. Tom Gaunt. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

 

He saw Harry swallow, still a ghostly white. “Hi,” the boy croaked. “I’m sorry… you look like someone I once knew. You gave me quite the scare.” Harry attempted a wry smile. It looked more a grimace than anything else.

 

Voldemort bit back a sudden fear. Surely the boy hadn’t recognized him? He’d used a complicated set of enchantments on this form, making it so that no one who had actually known him at sixteen would recognize him. So why did Harry Potter look so very… disturbed?

 

It mattered not. Voldemort easily managed to become Potter’s potions partner for the next class, softly giving tips and pointers. If he remained at this distance, Voldemort knew, Potter would soon collapse and come to him.

 

And it _did_ work. Just… slowly. The boy’s tension was not helped any by Severus, the scoundrel, who was doing his very best to make Potter miserable. Which would have been fine, even wonderful any other day, but now, when Voldemort was so very carefully trying to get into Potter’s good graces… It was irritating. He saw something flash in Potter’s bright, green eyes, something dark and empty, at another of the Professor’s disparaging comments. Voldemort glared. Really, there was no possible way he could charm the boy in this state. What was Severus even achieving with this?

 

At the end of the class, Voldemort raced after Potter, trapping him in the corridor as his annoying friends looked back warily.

 

“I’m so sorry about Professor Snape,” he babbled, pasting on an apprehensive expression. “As a Slytherin, I feel almost… embarrassed. I’m new here, so I didn’t realize how bad the house rivalry was. No wonder you were uncomfortable when I introduced myself before.” A small smile, eyes upturned hopefully.

 

Ah yes. Voldemort had always been good at charming people.

 

And there it was. Potter was smiling uncertainly back at him. But Voldemort was surprised at how lovely it looked on the boy’s face. He promptly crushed the thought.

 

“That’s quite alright,” Potter responded. “I’m used to it. He’s always been like that; my dad was really cruel to him back at school….” At this the boy looked away, seemingly deep in thought. “I can understand it.”

 

Well. That was a little surprising. He knew that Potter was supposed to be ‘good’ and everything, but he’d never quite been able to part with his image of the brash, immature Gryffindor he remembered at age eleven. Voldemort hadn’t been prepared for the boy’s forgiving nature.

 

“I see,” he said, almost stiffly before remembering himself. “Still, I doubt you got much done in that atmosphere. I can help you out if you want. I take very good Potions notes.” Voldemort shifted his head to the side slightly with a subtle smirk, still staring at Potter; he knew that this angle brought out his high cheekbones. Beauty was _so_ helpful in getting what he wanted. For a moment, Voldemort wondered why he hadn’t used it for so long.

 

Oh, that’s right. The Cruciatus Curse was much more fun.

 

Not that this wasn’t entertaining however. He was unprepared for Potter’s bright smile. “Really? That would be wonderful. Are you free after dinner? I’ll meet you in the library.  


He nodded absently, dimly aware of his open mouth, blinded by the Potter boy’s shining green eyes. Dammit.

 

*

As he waited in the library for Potter, Voldemort relooked at his plan. He had to charm Potter, and become privy to the Order’s Plans. He trusted no one but himself in this. Who else had the skills of the Great Lord Voldemort?

 

The said boy arrived, smiling at him. But this time, he refused to react to the expression, getting out his class notes and handing them over.

 

“Thank you so much for this,” Potter said as he took the notes. “I really appreciate it.” Again, that smile.

 

Voldemort nodded, looking down at the table. “It’s perfectly fine, I assure you. Now, I looked at your potion, I hope you don’t mind, during class today, and I think you added too much flaxweed. That unbalances the potion, turning it into a solvent. At least, that would have occurred if your other measurements for the Salamander blood were correct. Three ounces, yes? Any less, and it would have-“ Voldemort continued to speak, and when an hour had passed, was suddenly made aware of the fact that there was nothing whatsoever to talk about. He’d finished speaking about Potions, and was quite unexpectedly tongue-tied.

 

He should have practiced in the mirror more.

 

“Wow. You must be a potions genius. You’d give Hermione a run for her money, I bet,” Potter exclaimed.

 

Voldemort felt himself smirk, glancing at Potter’s face out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps the mirror work was unnecessary then. “I do enjoy a good brewing, yes. But thank you for the compliment.” Modesty, _and_ confidence. Who would refuse that?

 

He latched onto something to say. “Still, Professor Snape shouldn’t be treating you like that because of your father. You’re your own person.” He heard Potter’s intake of breath. Ah, struck gold.

 

“It’s… more than that,” Potter admitted to him. “He was in love with my mum, but she chose my dad over him. The one man he hated most of all, the one woman whom he most adored… Whenever he looks at me, he sees that betrayal. I look just like him, you know, my dad. Except I have my mother’s eyes. It must hurt every time he looks at me; no wonder he can’t bear the sight of me.”

 

Voldemort thought dimly that Lily Potter’s eyes were extraordinarily lovely. He remembered how they had looked as he killed her.

 

“You are very aware,” he replied. “It is… difficult to look past your hatred for someone, and see what motivates them. To understand the one who burns you is… difficult.”

 

Potter didn’t respond in that moment. He glanced down at the library desk, littered with pages of potions work, unseeingly. But then, finally, he glanced back up at him, eyes bright and lonely. “You have a way with words, Tom. Really. I do appreciate you listening to me rant about my life.”

 

Voldemort meanwhile, had gone still. No one had called him Tom in… well, it was decades, wasn’t it? The name surely didn’t fit him anymore. He had grown beyond it, snatched at power, and now had been rebirthed as Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Immortality in his grasp. But now, hearing that name on Potter’s lips… it sent him back, so very far back, and he suddenly remembered being a boy again, the weight of both past and present on his shoulders, the feeling of being so very, very alone.

 

“Tom?” he heard again, and glanced up, heart beating loudly in his ears, to see Potter’s concerned expression.

 

“I’ll listen any time,” he managed. His face felt strange and wooden, it was difficult to meld it into a smile. “Harry.”

 

Potter’s answering smile made it a little easier.

 

*

 

Over the next week, he met Harry frequently in the library. They did their potions homework together, read each other’s essays. All in all, it was more socializing than Voldemort had ever done in his schooldays. With anyone.

 

But Voldemort was also wondering about the actions of Dumbledore, and his annoying organization of chickens. So far Harry had let nothing slip and although he wasn’t impatient, he sometimes feared the teen knew nothing. And that meant all of this, all of it, was all for nothing.

 

Still. Harry’s company wasn’t too bad. The boy didn’t pry, and was relatively bright, plus quick to smile. Voldemort had been surprised at how easy the boy found it to laugh at himself. From the Savior of the Wizarding World… he’d expected more pride perhaps. More arrogant bluster. Yet Harry never boasted about his successes, and Voldemort knew, much to his chagrin, that there were quite a lot of them. In fact… Harry seemed more apt to put himself down. Often at these times, a faint haunted look would appear in his eyes, before he’d laugh and change the subject.

 

Voldemort was not stupid; he was a genius. He knew that _he_ probably had something to do with these expressions. Survivor’s guilt probably, and all the rest of it. It was expected from the Savior. And in a way, it was nice to have this much influence over someone. But… although he hardly admitted it to himself, could barely even allow the thought….

 

He didn’t like that haunted expression. Voldemort preferred Harry’s eyes brighter than empty.

 

Not that Voldemort knew this of course.

 

In an attempt to better facilitate friendship, Voldemort had chosen the same subjects as Harry, and as such, they were partnered in almost everything. Harry wasn’t suspicious it seemed, but there were times when he caught Harry staring at him, a strange look in his eyes. As if he didn’t know what to make of him. But that was all right, he supposed. Voldemort didn’t quite know what to make of Harry.

 

He was soon forced to meet the bloodtraitor and mudblood; It came with the territory. And hadn't that encounter been… unpleasant. They’d been working in the library when the two appeared. The girl had beamed at him so very brightly, Voldemort had thought he’d catch a disease. He’d glanced at Harry who was looking bemusedly at her.

 

“This is Tom Gaunt, Hermione, Ron. He’s been helping me out in Potions.”

 

“A pleasure,” Tom smiled widely, showing his teeth. It was anything but.

 

“I’m Hermione Granger,” the mudblood introduced herself. “I’m so glad that you’ve been helping Harry. It’s so much better in Potions with you there.” Voldemort wondered if Harry would mind if he cast a _silencio_ on her. Judging from the small twitching of his lips at the exchange, probably.

 

Voldemort looked at the freckled whelp Weasley then. The boy was staring at Granger rather dreamily.

 

Well. That was rather disgusting. But it explained why Harry was so prepared to spend time with him, so it was tolerable.

 

“Yeah, nice to meet you,” the boy shook Voldemort’s hand.

 

Voldemort removed his hand, and subtly wiped it on his robe, smirking. “Yes, I’m sure. Harry’s told me much about you.” Which was the truth. Voldemort had not been pleased with the amount of conversation that included Harry’s immediate friendships. It made him feel tetchy. Yes. The perfect word to describe it.

 

Weasley had then gone to the Gryffindor tower to go be childish with the other Gryffindors, but Granger unfortunately remained to with work on Charms with them.

 

It made Voldemort feel caged, the genius he was; going to school was pure torture. But Harry managed to sooth the wound a little. Voldemort had subtly taken the role of tutor in their sessions, and had found it much more stimulating. But the mudblood… She was annoying. The girl was moderately intelligent, but treated Harry as if he were a small child! Voldemort had to struggle not to glare at her, not sure if he succeeded. Harry occasionally glanced at him with an amused look in his green eyes.

 

So of course he spent the session casually showing Granger up without seeming to. He’d show Harry who was superior. Then he’d realize how annoying the girl was, cast her (and the Weasley) aside and spend time only with him.

 

The plan suited Voldemort just fine. Then he’d have Harry all to himself, until the boy trusted him completely. Then he’d have the boy’s secrets.

 

Voldemort looked at Harry’s face, slightly shadowed in the dim library lighting. But those eyes were as bright as he’d ever seen them.

 

Yes. That plan suited him just fine.

 

*

 

Nothing much occurred in the next few weeks. Voldemort ingratiated himself ever further into Harry’s trust, subtly taking more and more of his time away from his fellow Gryffindors. Although Voldemort occasionally worried about the lost opportunities for muggle raids and torturing Wormtail, his concerns seemed to slowly vanish as time went on. Indeed, Voldemort was reminded constantly of how enjoyable Harry’s company was. Which was foolish. Mind-blowingly foolish. The boy would soon die, and then… well. He’d be dead. There was no point in _enjoying_ Hrry’s company.

 

But he looked forward to Harry’s death less and less every day.

 

One evening, Voldemort met with Harry after dinner on a Friday as usual, and was surprised to see Harry looking drawn and tired. The boy normally had boundless energy that was only broken by occasional reflective silences. Yet this… this was different.

 

“What’s the matter?” he asked immediately, standing up from the library desk he’d been sitting at.

 

Harry smiled faintly at his concern, but it didn’t hide the deep bags under his eyes. “Oh, nothing too drastic Tom,” he replied, slipping into the seat opposite him. As usual, Voldemort started a little at the name ‘Tom’. He’d never quite got used to Harry calling him by his former name. Even now, everyone else at the school called him ‘Gaunt’.

 

He returned to his seat slowly, watching Harry carefully. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You know you can tell me anything. I’m your friend, Harry.”

 

Harry chuckled, yet the sound was dry and sour. “I know Tom. But really, I’ve just had a long day. I’m fine.”

 

Voldemort felt almost offended at Harry’s disregard for his concern. The Dark Lord did not ask of one’s wellbeing too often after all. Obviously, Harry didn’t trust him enough. The thought made him clench his jaw tightly.

 

The rest of the evening was slightly stilted, but Voldemort was still not desirous of leaving when they’d finished all their work. They fell into an awkward silence, neither wanting to leave, but not knowing what to say to continue the conversation.

 

Maybe mirror work _was_ required.

 

Suddenly Harry said to him, “Do you want to go on a walk? I’m not too anxious to sleep yet.”

 

Voldemort glanced at him, surprised but pleased. “Now? I’d be happy to, but my only worry is Filch.”

 

Harry grinned wickedly, the sight making Voldemort swallow. “Don’t worry about that. I have just the thing. Let’s return our books to our dormitory, and I’ll met you at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.”

 

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “You know where the Slytherin Common Room is?”

 

Harry smirked at him. The expression was… very aesthetically pleasing on him. Voldemort stood quickly, picking up his books. “I’ll see you very soon then,” he said, clearing his suddenly dry throat. He returned to the dungeon floor, the image of Harry’s smile never leaving him.

 

He’d only been waiting at the common room entrance for several minutes when Harry’s head appeared in front of him, making him squeak in surprise.

 

How embarrassing. A Dark Lord didn’t squeak. Neither were they supposed to blush.

 

“Come on,” Harry said, and a disembodied hand grabbed Voldemort’s upper arm, dragging him closer.

 

 

Staring at the castle walls through the folds of an Invisibility Cloak was a new experience for Voldemort.

 

“This is a very good cloak,” he murmured to Harry. The entire left side of his body, the side pressed against Harry, was beginning to warm up.

 

“Yes I know,” said Harry. “It was my dad’s. A Potter heirloom this. Dumbledore gave it to me. My dad would’ve given it to me himself but… you know.”

 

Voldemort _did_ know. His mouth went dry.

 

Harry stopped suddenly, bringing their slow ambling to a halt. He had turned and grabbed Voldemort’s hand with his own warm ones; Voldemort thought they would practically burn through his skin, they were so warm.

 

“Merlin,” whispered Harry, who was uncomfortably close now. “Your hands are freezing, Tom. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you out at this hour.”

 

Voldemort gulped, feeling slightly claustrophobic. Harry’s entire body was pressed against his side, and his eyes, which were too bloody green for Salazar’s sake, were staring searchingly into his own. Which, Voldemort then realized, weren’t his own. His own eyes were red, a shocking scarlet, with slitted pupils like a snake’s. And his hands... Of course they would be icy cold next to Harry’s very human warmth. Voldemort was almost cold blooded by now.

 

He took a step back abruptly, and immediately missed the contact. He took a deep breath.

 

Harry was looking at him with furrowed brows. “Tom?”

 

“Harry.” Voldemort started, feeling very small and angry with himself. “What do you… what do you think about him?”

 

By Salazar, why was he doing this? What was wrong with him! He didn’t need to know this.

 

“About whom?” If anything Harry looked more worried. And of course, he should be worried, Voldemort yelled at himself. He was acting bloody insane.

 

“Him. He Who Must Not Be Named.”

 

Harry’s face seemed to pale at the question, and his eyes widened, face turning stiff and wooden. Voldemort cursed himself and felt rather abjectly terrified.

 

“Why do you ask?” Harry’s tone was too casual, too flat.

 

“You must despise him, surely,” he responded.

 

Harry turned away, looking at the grey stone walls of the castle corridor. The dim light cast flickers of golden onto his face, his eyes in shadow, and Voldemort was floored at how beautiful he looked.

 

“You know… I really should,” Harry stated then, still not looking at him. “I do in a way. I hate how much pain he’s caused. How many families have been ruined for the selfish desires of just one man.”

 

Voldemort stood very, very still.

 

“But… you know, I was raised by muggles, right? Just like him. And just like him, I didn’t receive any love or care. The Dursleys hated magic. They tried to stamp it out of me. And I can remember, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling of my little cupboard, hating them, and wishing they would all just disappear, so that they couldn’t call me a freak anymore. And I think about Voldemort, who was once just a kid too, abused my muggles for being amazing, for having _magic_ , and I can’t hate him. I really can’t.” Harry smiled at him then, a caring smile that reached right up into his eyes, which were too dizzyingly bright. “I just… I just want to go save that young Tom Riddle from the world. It’s just as evil, it seems to me.”

 

How does he know? Voldemort wondered dazedly. How?

 

“Tom… Riddle?” He managed through barely parted lips.

 

Harry grinned at him again, too frighteningly lovely for words. “That’s Voldemort’s real name, you know. He made an anagram of it, Tom Marvalo Riddle, as a teenager. He told me himself when I was in second year.”

 

Voldemort gaped at him. “He told you himself?”

 

“Not Voldemort,” Harry said quietly, now looking away. “A shadow of himself. The memory of Tom Riddle, trapped in a diary for fifty years.”

 

Voldemort felt himself beginning to pale.

 

“You know,” said Harry conversationally. “The name Marvalo comes from his mother’s brother, from the Gaunt family. Descendants of Slytherin actually, but all gone mad. So I have to ask, Tom. Did you really think that was subtle enough? I mean Tom Gaunt? Seriously? You must have thought it was hilarious. I had a few laughs myself, after the shock wore off.”

 

“You know,” whispered Voldemort, lips closed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. “The whole time, you knew.”

 

Harry looked at him, then. “I recognized you, Tom Riddle. Dumbledore didn’t. McGonagall didn’t, but I did. So did Ginny actually.”

 

“The Weasley’s sister?” asked Voldemort now, gaping in disbelief.

 

“Yep. The diary possessed her before I destroyed it. She knew it very well. Much better than I did.”

 

Voldemort’s thoughts were now racing at a million miles a minute, but he still didn’t move. He was frozen in a strange world, staring at a Harry Potter who knew everything at him, had known from the start, everything he had wished to hide away.

 

“I’m sure you cast some wicked spell so that no one could recognize you. But we never actually knew you so…” he shrugged, almost light-heartedly. “What I don’t understand is why. I assumed you wanted Order secrets or whatnot, but you should know by now that I know nothing.”

 

Finally Voldemort said something. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

A strange expression crossed Harry’s face, so briefly he almost missed it. “I didn’t understand,” he answered after a moment. “I still don’t. You could just _kill_ me. You’ve had plenty of chances. And… you’ve been so kind to me. Really. I know it was all just acting but…” Harry turned back to the wall, his face pained. “I’ve never actually been able to talk to someone. I mean, my friends listen to me because they care about the emotional health of the Boy Who Lived. But you’re the Dark Lord. You don’t care. But I’m sure you actually understand a lot of what I say to you. But maybe that’s just acting too.” Harry turned back to face him. “It’s your turn now. Kill me if you want. Answer my questions. I honestly don’t mind. Just don’t… Don’t hurt anyone.”

 

Voldemort stared at the exquisite boy in front of him, who had seen right through him, who had actually wanted to save him from the world, and knew that despite everything, he could never harm him.

 

“I won’t kill you,” he echoed. “I swear it. But… I can’t answer your questions.” Not when I don’t understand myself.

 

Harry nodded, looking away. “I should go,” he said “I’ll walk you back so Mrs Norris doesn’t catch you.”

 

Despite the fact he knew. Despite the fact they both knew. Voldemort could easily get back to the Slytherin Common Room unseen; he was the Dark Lord for goodness sake. But Harry escorted him under the cloak regardless. They walked in silence, much like before, and just like before, Voldemort feared that he’d burst into flames with how warm Harry was.

 

Finally, they arrived and Voldemort stepped out from under the cloak. He was left with a sudden fear that Harry would ever speak to him again, but of course, when he looked back, he could not see anyone. He heard a softly murmured “Goodnight Tom,” and he knew he was alone.

 

Voldemort didn’t sleep. He leaned against the castle wall, heedless of the school rules, and sunk to the ground, bone-weary. Harry’s visage refused to leave him, his words on replay. “ _I just want to save that young Tom Riddle from the world. It’s just as evil, it seems to me.”_

 

“But not you,” he murmured into the darkness. “Not you, Harry.” You’re perfect.

 

He pictured dizzying green eyes and pink cheeks, that white shining smile. He didn’t know anything anymore.

 

*

 

At breakfast the next day, Voldemort sat on the side facing the Gryffindor table. Nobody spoke to him. Voldemort, or really, Tom Gaunt, had become something of an outcast in Slytherin House. He was friends with Potter after all. Voldemort wondered how they’d react if they knew the truth. The truth didn’t cheer him up as much as it usually did.

 

Harry and his friends hadn’t arrived yet. The expectation of it caused nerves to flutter in Voldemort’s stomach. He was impatient for it. These various feelings were unfamiliar to the Dark Lord; he couldn’t so much as eat. He glanced moodily at the gleaming plate in front of him. Tom Riddle’s blurred countenance gazed back. Voldemort looked at himself for a time. He was conscious of a twisting, burning pain inside him. He recognized it quite distinctly. It had been very familiar to Tom Riddle as a boy.

 

_Jealousy._

Voldemort, at that moment, could not recall a time when he had hated himself as much as he did then.

 

He was startled from his reverie when a familiar voice called out. “Tom!”

 

Voldemort jumped a mile from his seat, causing the Slytherins near him to snigger. Not that he paid any attention to them. He was gazing at Harry Potter, whose hair was even messier today than it normally was. The teen was walking towards the Slytherin table, looking expectantly up at him.

 

“Harry?” asked Voldemort, disbelievingly. He glanced at the Slytherins beside him, who was glaring at the Chosen One threateningly. He ignored the urge inside him, the one that wanted to protect Harry from their glares and cut them all up into millions of little pieces. He rose, and walked around the long table to meet Harry in between the Ravenclaws and the Slytherins. He couldn’t seem to speak, so he only gestured wordlessly to the entrance to the Great Hall.

 

Voldemort felt entirely too aware of Harry. He could hear every footstep, every breath, could not prevent himself from glancing at the boy repeatedly. His robes had been thrown on haphazardly, as if in a rush, his hair too seemed to defy gravity in its every lock.

 

Voldemort had the sudden urge to touch it. At the realization of this, he had the sudden urge to strangle himself.

 

What are you doing? He hissed at himself mentally. You’re being an idiot! This is Harry Potter! Don’t you remember who that is?  


They came to a stop outside an unused classroom. “Tom,” Harry said. He turned to him at once. “Tom, how are you?”

 

The Tom-in-question stared at Harry in disbelief. “What?” he asked

 

Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. Voldemort tried not to feel so envious of the hand. Merlin, he wanted to touch so much.

 

“I imagine you were rather shocked last night. I was really worried about you, you know,” the teen said, eyes wide and just as worried as he said.

 

Voldemort blinked, wondering if this was actually happening. “Do you even remember who I am?” I am the Dark Lord, he said to himself. I am Lord Voldemort.

 

Harry looked downcast for a moment, and the expression made Voldemort’s heart squeeze. “Yes, I know. I know. But…” at this Harry looked even more uncomfortable. “You’re my friend. Even if it was all a lie. Even if you dream about murdering me in my sleep. I can’t… I can’t just give that up, you know?”

 

Voldemort’s heart was starting to beat uncontrollably fast. He simply couldn’t comprehend the situation. “I won’t kill you,” is what he said. “And it wasn’t.”

 

Harry glanced up at him questioningly.

 

“It wasn’t a lie.”

 

Harry’s answering smile made his mouth dry up. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

 

*

 

Over the next few weeks, they spent just as much time together. Harry didn’t mention his true self again, and Voldemort had to continually remind himself that this was all real.

 

This is real, he told himself, when Harry smiled at him in Transfiguration. This is real, he said again, when Harry spent time with him instead of his Gryffindor friends. This is real, he told himself when Harry’s shoulder brushed his in the hallway, and he had to look at the floor to hide how much it affected him.

 

He was sitting in the front of the common room fireplace, replaying a conversation with Harry, when a hand tapped his shoulder. Voldemort turned with surprise to see that it was Pansy Parkinson.

 

“Gaunt,” she greeted him. “Voldemort only waited for her purpose. “I’ve come to represent the Slytherin House.” He furrowed an eyebrow, realizing that everyone was watching them from the corner of their eyes.

 

Voldemort turned back to the girl, keeping his face smooth. “Yes?”

 

Hesitation flickered on her face only for a moment. “We don’t approve of your choice. I mean, Potter? Really?” Disgust floated on her features for a second. “But, if you’re really so inclined, we’d all much rather you get it over with. Perhaps this might even raise our reputation.”

 

Voldemort’s face twisted in confusion. “I’m sorry but… what?”

 

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You know. Your infatuation with him. Act on it. Make him your boyfriend. Snog him, screw him. I don’t care. Just hurry up and make it public. Your mooning at the breakfast table is driving us all insane.”

 

There was a brief silence in which Voldemort wondered what would occur if he revealed himself as the Dark Lord. This thought passed, and he next wished to kill himself. Perhaps jump off the Astronomy Tower. He’d need to destroy his horcruxes though.

 

No, that wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to die. Harry was still alive.

 

“Thank you for sharing your words of wisdom,” he finally replied, voice sounding tinny and strange to his ears. Staring into the crackling fire, he wasn’t surprised to feel the burning feeling reappear within him again. It made its appearance regularly since Harry had confronted him.

 

*

 

He avoided Harry the next morning, and only snagged an apple from the kitchens before hiding in an empty classroom. Voldemort stared sightlessly through a window at the castle grounds; it wasn’t to last long however. Within half an hour he heard footsteps, and turned to see the Chosen One standing at the doorway, his face concerned. The expression made Voldemort’s heart ache, but it seemed everything Harry did lately achieved that same result.

 

“Tom? You weren’t at breakfast,” Harry began. Voldemort avoided looking at him. “Tom?” Harry moved closer to him, but he still looked at the floor, at the wall, through the window. Anything but Harry. The teen scooted even closer, close enough that Voldemort could feel his warm breath on his cheek. It tickled.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong?” Harry murmured to him, intimately, and Voldemort had to close his eyes at the sudden yearning that flowed through him. “Tom?” A hint of alarm now in that voice. Voldemort looked up then, at the most gorgeous person in the universe he was quite sure, and despised himself.

 

At last he responded. “I am very angry.”

 

Harry’s brow furrowed. “At whom?”

 

Voldemort chuckled. “Only myself.” The laugh was bitter and cold.

 

If anything, Harry looked more alarmed, and his face was still too bloody close. He looked at the wide green eyes, felt their breaths mingle, and suddenly couldn’t do anything. He pounced.

 

There was a muffled gasp of surprise from Harry, but Voldemort ignored it, threading his fingers through Harry’s silky hair _finally_ and devouring him. The thick locks were even softer than he’d imagined, and the taste… Merlin, Harry tasted of sweetness and vanilla and everything he’d ever wanted.

 

He felt his hands slip down Harry’s head to his shoulders, and felt his stomach flip as he felt Harry’s tongue touch his own uncertainly. He almost moaned at the dizzying pleasure, couldn’t bear to pull back to breathe. But he did for Harry, his heart beating so rapidly he wondered if it could be heard.

Harry’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated, cheeks a gorgeous rosy pink. Voldemort could barely stop himself from attacking Harry’s lips again with similar fervor. It was everything he’d imagined, everything he’d dreamed about and yet…

 

Harry was motionless, standing stiffly in Voldemort’s arms like a stature. He turned to ice.

 

Voldemort stood back abruptly, only to see Harry’s shocked face, eyes wide, jaw dropped, cheeks still pink.

 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, still breathless. But the world was slowly righting itself and coming back into focus, and with every passing second he hated himself even more. “Forgive me. Please,” he attempted. “You were just so close I…”

 

Voldemort had to close his eyes with the sudden humiliation, the pain of his unrequited affection, the intense desire to both embrace Harry and to sink into the floor.

 

“Tom,” a surprised exhale, very faint. It was only then that Voldemort realized that Harry had stopped breathing. “Tom, do you care for me?” An incredulous tone, Harry asked almost disbelievingly. As if he didn’t _know._

 

It made Voldemort want to lash out. He took a deep breath. “How can you _not_ know?” He glanced at the floor, unseeingly. “Can’t you see how I… how I… crave your attention? Your… your touch? You… how can you not _know?”_

He felt more than heard Harry’s sudden intake of breath. Voldemort stiffened then, as he felt a soft touch on his head, threading slowly through his hair.

 

This is real, he told himself. This is real.

 

“I can’t believe this is real,” he heard Harry whisper. He glanced up, to see Harry’s face lit with awe and wonder. As if he couldn’t believe that this was reality. As if he was afraid it would vanish with every passing second.

 

Voldemort recognized it easily. It’s how he felt.

 

Harry laughed then, a small thing, but… it filled his chest until he felt he would burst. “I never imagined,” he whispered, “that you would feel the same as me.”

 

Voldemort felt his eyes widen, felt his jaw drop slightly. Something in his stomach dropped, and filled with butterflies and “What?”

 

A small, intimate smile that struck him like a hammer on the head. “You’re the Dark Lord. He Who Must Not Be Named. How could… How could you ever actually… feel the same? It was impossible, I thought. You were probably dreaming about killing me whereas I…” Harry’s cheeks flushed a violent red.

 

Voldemort, so slowly, brought his hand up to stroke Harry’s right cheek. “Never.”

 

This is real, he told himself. This is real.

 

He couldn’t believe it. But he wanted to.


	2. This is real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was a oneshot. But then some gorgeous comments made me happy and inspired (thank you xx) and so it's not anymore. Ugh. 
> 
> This is basically all from Harry's perspective. Now that it's not a oneshot anymore, I realised there are some timeline issues and whatnot. So sorry about that. Just imagine that Harry learnt about Voldemort's past in fifth year. Or not. 
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to emphasise the Fluff tag. Not because it's not angsty, but because there are some things in this fic that don't make sense, that are just there for fluffiness' sake. I wrote this on a sick day. But anyway. I personally believe that pining can make up for just about anything.

“Harry…” he heard from somewhere far away. “Harry…”

 

He mumbled something, trying to push the voice away. It was too loud, too annoying, too much like a garbage truck at seven in the morning. “Lemslip,” he muttered, scrunching his eyes tighter at the voice. “Let me sleep.”

 

“Harry! You need to wake up!” The soft, glimmer of a dream faded, and Harry looked up into Ginny’s fair face, wondering how on earth she’d gotten into the Boys Dormitory.

 

“Ginny?”

 

“Harry!” Ginny’s voice was relieved, and it was with surprise that Harry observed her red eyes, the sharp furrow on her forehead. “Something’s wrong. It’s awfully wrong, and no one is seeing it.”

 

He sat up, blinking. “Wha-?” Harry grimaced at the crick in his neck, realized he was in some back corner of the library, and probably had a crease on his face from lying on a book. “What’s wrong?” he asked, turning towards Ginny.

 

She looked around furtively, as if the library wasn’t deserted on a Friday evening; Harry had been researching something about someone he couldn’t quite remember, assumed it was important and due on Monday (he had Quidditch practice all weekend), and wondered why Ron’s sister was in the library at all.

 

“ _He’s_ here,” she whispered. “Tom Riddle.”

 

“Wha-?” Harry stared at her, dumbstruck.

 

Ginny cringed at his expression. “I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me! No one else has noticed, not even Dumbledore, and…” she trailed off, breathing hard. “He’s here,” she repeated adamantly. “I don’t know how, I know you destroyed the diary, but it’s him. Absolutely.”

 

Harry blinked again, and suddenly wished that he were still asleep.

 

He was still wishing that at dinner ten minutes later, as he and Ginny gazed at the Slytherin table, gobsmacked at the presence of its latest addition.

 

“Oh, you’ve noticed him, then,” Hermione said casually, buttering a small roll. “He arrived this morning apparently. Tom Gaunt, half-blood, and in sixth year. He had a private sorting and everything, at least, that’s what I overheard in Ancient Runes today.”

 

“And all the Slytherins adore him!” added Ron, swallowing a forkful of sausage. “I bet five galleons he’s worse than Malfoy.”

 

“Ron…” said Hermione disapprovingly. “You can’t just assume that. Why, he could be perfectly pleasant.”

 

“Look, just because he’s a bit fit-“

 

“Ronald Weasley!”

 

Harry gaped at them, before glancing at Ginny. The redhead shrugged at him, as if saying ‘Do you see what I have to deal with?’

 

“Right,” he said slowly. “Tom Gaunt.” Not Tom Riddle. Even if he looked like him, and was in bloody Slytherin, it couldn’t be. Harry had killed him by destroying his diary four years ago with a basilisk fang; it didn’t get much gorier than that, he thought to himself. “And Dumbledore’s okay with this? What about… what about Hagrid?”

 

Hermione frowned at him as if he were being dim. “Why would Dumbledore care? I know you don’t like the Slytherins, Harry, but you can’t just barricade the castle and prevent them from attending. And Hagrid… What about Hagrid?” Her lips twisted as if she were utterly baffled by him.

 

“Nothing,” he said, looking back at the handsome Slytherin. Riddle’s figure was tall, and even from across the Great Hall, his dark eyes seemed to glitter. He was disgustingly attractive with that smug smirk on his face, and terrifyingly familiar.

 

That was when Ginny elbowed him, and he hissed in pain. “Why Harry,” she said. “I’m quite full, what about you?” Getting the hint (as nearly the entire Gryffindor table did), Harry hurriedly gulped down his pumpkin juice and got up to follow her.

 

“It might _not_ be him,” he said hopefully, jogging a little to catch up with her. He assumed she was walking back to Gryffindor Tower. “I mean… Dumbledore let him in, and he knew Riddle at school.”

 

Ginny shot him a disdainful look. “Of course it’s him. Who else could look the spitting image of You-Know-Who at sixteen? And only _we_ recognize him. It must be some horrible dark ritual that allowed him to pass unnoticed, even though you destroyed the diary. I bet he had to sacrifice a muggleborn virgin for it, too.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes at her as they passed a thoroughly concerned ghost, who eyed them before floating away hastily at Ginny’s words. “Look, we could always try Hagrid. Riddle got him expelled at school, even Hagrid will have to admit that Gaunt looks just like him.”

 

Ginny sighed, slowing her pace slightly. “Yes, but what if he doesn’t recognize him? Because Harry… That will definitely mean there’s something up. How could anyone forget the image of a boy that grew up to be… to be _that.”_

“Oh Merlin, you’re right,” he whispered in response, before shaking his head. “But please, let’s just try Hagrid. And then… And then we’ll talk about it.”

 

“Alright,” Ginny murmured, as they finally arrived at the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Meet me here at ten tomorrow morning?”

 

“I’ve got Quidditch practice at seven,” he replied. “So maybe make it eleven.”

 

“See you then.”

 

Harry returned to his dormitory, and dreamt of Tom Riddle from the diary. He saw his dark eyes, all knowing, and the way the light had shone through him, as if he were made of mist. As if he were made of vapor.

 

As if he did not exist at all.

 

*

 

“So something’s up,” Harry admitted as they walked back up to Hogwarts after visiting Hagrid. “Something’s _really_ up.”

 

Ginny flattered him with a glare, before swiftly turning her head away.

 

“Okay,” he tried again. “It’s pretty bad. We’re the only ones to realize that Voldemort, a younger version of him that is, is attending Hogwarts. Like, actually going to class and eating dinner, and sleeping in the Slytherin Dormitory…” He was silent for a moment. “Do you think he actually sleeps? Like does he need to? Maybe he stays awake all night, just staring at all the Slytherins and wondering what wrong. He must be awfully disappointed with them. His future Death-Eaters and all-“

 

“Oh God,” said Ginny. “Oh God, You-Know-Who is at our school and I don’t care what he thinks about the Slytherins. He could be gay for them. I don’t care. Tom Riddle, is attending Hogwarts, going to class and eating dinner and he’s probably going to murder us, especially if he realizes that we know about him and-” She turned around, shook her head, pulled at her hair, turned back the other way, rounded on Harry, yelled at him, yelled at the grass.

 

“We better not let him know that we know then,” replied Harry moodily, a little offended at her outburst. It wasn’t _his_ fault that Voldemort was at the school, not-terrorizing the students.

 

“Yes,” said Ginny faintly. “Yes, that’s true.”

 

“Maybe,” said Harry, growing enthusiastic, “he’ll let his guard down even and make some obvious mistake.”

 

“What? Like sacrificing a virgin?” asked Ginny.

 

“A muggle-born one,” corrected Harry. “And then we can flush him out.”

 

“That’s your plan?”

 

“Doesn’t it sound like one?”

 

“Well, it certainly sounds like yours,” Ginny replied.

 

Harry made an offended sound. They’d just walked past the great doors to Hogwarts when… “Did you say that Voldemort was gay?”

 

“Oh God.”

 

 

*

 

They were in Potions class suffering under Severus Snape’s bad attitude when it happened. Ron had been walking towards him, obviously about to sit down, when _Riddle,_ acting as if he hadn’t noticed at all, sat next to him. Next to Harry that was. Harry Potter.

 

“Hello,” Voldemort said, turning towards him and gracing Harry with a smile. “I’m Tom. Tom Gaunt. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He offered his hand, and Harry stared at it for moment, for surely he was hallucinating. The fingers were long and slender, unfairly gorgeous, and how long had he been staring for?

 

“Hi,” Harry said, taking Riddle’s hand and shaking it. “I’m sorry… you look like someone I once knew. You gave me quite the scare.” He had the sudden urge to laugh, but managed to swallow it back down, smiling instead. He wondered if he looked demented. Perhaps so, for Riddle only nodded, before turning away and focusing on the lesson, making notes every so often in his elegant style of calligraphy. Harry wondered whether to feel disappointed or not. Certainly he felt relieved, feeling his shoulders begin to lower, and his breaths come slower. Merlin, it was not everyday one conversed with a serial murderer. Harry breathed out a laugh, and tried to focus on the lesson. Snape was speaking about something absurdly technical today (like he did most days, Harry was sure) and he struggled to understand it, not having heard its introduction.

 

It was impossible to concentrate regardless. All he could focus on was the possibility that he was sitting next to Voldemort himself. Or at least an incarnation of him; he had little idea of anything at this point.

 

“-tter?”

 

He looked up to see Snape staring at him, and felt a cord of unease tighten within him.

 

“Mr Potter, I would appreciate if you would remain focused in my class. You may very well spend your extra hours gallivanting about the Quidditch pitch; perhaps that will get it out of your system.” The last few words were almost spit out, each individually enunciated for greater effect. Harry gazed directly into Snape’s bottomless eyes, before hastily dropping his eyes back to the table. The room was terribly silent.

 

“Fifteen points from Gryffindor for not paying attention.”

 

Harry breathed in, and out, trying to regulate his suddenly fast heartbeat. He glanced from the corner of his eye at Riddle (or whoever he was), and was surprised at his expression – or the lack of it. He had expected the Slytherin to be pleased at Snape’s targeting of him, but now he realized that it would be too obvious. The boy, man, weird snake-man _thing_ was acting as harmless as possible. That explained his gorgeous appearance, an attempt at physical attraction in order to facilitate manipulation, Harry theorized. Yes, that explained it nicely.

 

And it’s not like Harry need fear that, he thought further. Even if Tom Riddle (or whoever he was) was absurdly attractive, Harry knew who and what he was.

 

There was no need to worry at all, really.

 

The class went on. Snape made a few further goes at Harry’s dignity (which was hardly present anyway, so there was no need to go at it, he thought) and Riddle remained quiet. Harry met Ron’s eyes several times. The redhead was obviously confused as to why Riddle had sat in his seat. Harry habitually made shrugging motions whilst attempting to remain still and not attain Snape’s ire. He failed. The class ended, and Harry bolted for the door. He’d only taken a few steps out of the doorway when a hand on his shoulder prevented him.

Harry turned around; it was none other than Tom Riddle (or whoever he was) of course, and he cursed. The boy’s face was strange, almost as if he were concerned, or even, well… _nervous._ Which was ridiculous. Harry could see something contrived about it, something artificial, something, Harry supposed, that he had only noticed because he was looking for it.

 

“I’m so sorry about Professor Snape,” Riddle said elegantly, an aura of vague sympathy surrounding him. “As a Slytherin, I feel almost… embarrassed.” There was a small grimace and Riddle’s eyes creased, as if expressing that embarrassment. “I’m new here, so I didn’t realize how bad the house rivalry was. No wonder you were uncomfortable when I introduced myself before.”

 

Ah yes, that’s right. Voldemort had always been good at charming people. Harry remembered the conversations of the Diary, of _him,_ remembered Ginny’s pale face as she’d recounted his manipulation of her. His possession.

 

Obviously, Riddle wanted something from him. Just what, Harry couldn’t say, he didn’t _know_ anything, but Voldemort didn’t know that. He smiled back, uncertain, but hoped that the expression’s weakness would communicate weariness instead of hesitation.

 

“That’s quite alright,” he said. He decided to elaborate, something really emotional as if he were actually trusting Riddle. “I’m used to it. He’s always been like that; my dad was really cruel to him back at school….” Harry looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Did he really have to tell Voldemort that? He looked around for something to finish the thought. “I can understand it.”

 

Harry supposed he did understand it. Not that he wanted to, of course. It was far easier to hate Snape than to understand him.

 

(Far easier to hate Voldemort.)

 

(He pushed that thought away.)

 

“I see,” Riddle replied, obviously wondering why Harry was such a whack-job. Harry wondered if it was actually a thing to embarrass yourself in front of Dark Lords; he certainly hadn’t thought so yesterday, but now, here he was.

 

“Still,” the Slytherin continued. Harry envied him for his obvious charisma: if only he naturally had a nose. “I doubt you got much done in that atmosphere. I can help you out if you want. I take very good Potions notes.”

 

That was when it happened. The _thing._ Riddle turned slightly so the light hit his face in a strange way, and all Harry could see was cheekbones, cheekbones, Oh God, _gorgeous_ cheekbones and how on earth could a serial murderer have eyelashes that long? He blinked, looking down, suddenly seriously afraid, and with a deep breath summoned the brightest smile he had.

 

“Really? That would be wonderful. Are you free after dinner? I’ll meet you in the library.

 

Tom Riddle smiled softly back at him, the barest upturn of the lips before Harry turned away, knowing he had to get away. Far away. Where no one would ever find him. He was somewhat dimly aware of Riddle’s face stapled onto the back of his eyelids as he walked.

 

Dammit.

 

*

 

“I’m seeing him,” he told Ginny at dinner, placing a treacle tart on his plate.

 

“What?” she stared at Harry, aghast. Her hand, which held a spoon full of some greenish colored soup, hovered just below her mouth. The soup was dripping back into her bowl. “Did he ask you _out_?”

 

“What? No, I mean, well _yes,_ technically he did, but not like _that._ We’re looking at Potions stuff.”

 

“Right,” she said doubtfully, and spooned up some more soup.

 

“What’s this about?” Ron asked, joining in the conversation.

 

“I think Harry’s got a date,” said Hermione, smirking slightly. She then subtly stole a buttered potato from Ron’s plate.

 

“Really?”

 

“No!” said Harry at the same time as Ginny said “Yes!”

 

Ron blinked at him, before grinning. “Well that's great Harry. Who is he?”

 

“He?” Harry stared, before shaking his head and cutting into his treacle tart, now turning cool. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a date.”

 

“Well, that’s good,” said Ginny primly. “I really hoped you’d have better taste than that. Him being… well… You-Know-Who.”

 

“He’s not a Slytherin, is he?” Ron asked, and yelped as Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.

 

“Well I think that’s brilliant, Harry,” the bushy-haired girl smiled at him.

 

Harry sighed, despairing.

 

*

 

He stood just outside the library, breathing in and breathing out. Was this the way his life would end? Studying with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named after dinner one evening?

 

Harry sincerely hoped not.

 

He glanced through the entryway, saw Tom Riddle sitting gracefully (how did one even _do_ that, anyhow?) at one of the tables, and promptly took three steps back.

 

So in all likelihood Voldemort (or whoever this bloody was) would not kill him tonight. He was probably here with a subtle plan of subtle manipulation that would subtly cause Harry to do something unsubtly. Like reveal information he did not possess. Or… he couldn’t think of anything else.

 

Well, Harry supposed. He was either very unimaginative or Voldemort was doomed to failure (He predicted it would either be the former, or both). Regardless, he pasted a wide smile onto his face, and tried to be his natural, charming self.

 

“Thank you so much for this,” he said as he walked over, accepting a pile of notes Tom handed him. “I really appreciate it.” Again, he smiled. Voldemort or Tom Riddle or whoever he was nodded in reply, looking down at the table. At the notes, Harry supposed.

 

“It’s perfectly fine, I assure you,” Riddle replied. Harry lamented the Dark Lord’s elegance. He was so terribly envious. And then… “Now, I looked at your potion, I hope you don’t mind, during class today, and I think you added too much flaxweed. That unbalances the potion, turning it into a solvent. At least, that would have occurred if your other measurements for the Salamander blood were correct. Three ounces, yes? Any less, and it would have-“

 

Harry listened in awe, watching as Riddle’s eyes up slightly as he gestured and spoke. Goodness, it made sense now that the boy discovered the Chamber of Secrets at fifteen. He was a genius.

 

Harry felt a little insignificant for a moment, before he attempted to soak it all in. It was with something like astonishment that he realized that he could actually understand all of Riddle’s words.

 

“Wow. You must be a potions genius. You’d give Hermione a run for her money, I bet,” he exclaimed, inwardly cringing. By Salazar, he should have practiced in the mirror more.

 

“I do enjoy a good brewing, yes. But thank you for the compliment.”

 

Harry internally groaned. Modesty _and_ confidence. Who could refuse that?

 

Riddle continued, the evil bastard. “Still, Professor Snape shouldn’t be treating you like that because of your father. You’re your own person.”

 

Harry felt his breath catch. Ah. He was being thoroughly manipulated. If he knew that being declared an individual was his weakness, he would have been more ready but…

 

Harry hadn’t known. He felt defenseless. “It’s… more than that,” he confessed, closing his eyes and wondering what on earth he was doing. Who on earth he was talking to. “He was in love with my mum, but she chose my dad over him. The one man he hated most of all, the one woman whom he most adored…” He felt the ghost of the heartache in his chest and winced slightly, before looking up and meeting Riddle’s eyes. They were dark and piercing and looked right back at Harry, as if knowing. “Whenever he looks at me, he sees that betrayal. I look just like him, you know, my dad. Except I have my mother’s eyes. It must hurt every time he looks at me; no wonder he can’t bear the sight of me.” At the end of his tirade, he flushed, gazing at his potions text instead of bloody Voldemort, not believing what he had admitted.

 

“You are very aware,” Riddle replied, and Harry looked up at him, meeting his eyes. They were a deep, dark gray he noticed, like storm clouds. “It is… difficult to look past your hatred for someone, and see what motivates them. To understand the one who burns you is… difficult.”

 

Oh God. Oh Merlin. That sounded awfully familiar. That sounded like he was talking about _them._ He had to look away again, feeling unbalanced, as if someone had hit him on the back of head with a frying pan, but without the pain. He blinked, and looked back at Tom Riddle. He noticed then how solid the boy was, as solid Harry was, and he remembered his dream, and the way Tom Riddle had been made of vapor and mist.

 

This Tom Riddle wasn’t made of mist. This wasn’t the diary.

 

Then… It must be Voldemort.

 

Harry swallowed, before replying, as truthfully as he could. “You have a way with words, Tom. Really. I do appreciate you listening to me rant about my life.”

 

Riddle didn’t respond, just looked at him for a long moment. Harry felt his cheeks burn and ached to get away. “Tom?”

 

“I’ll listen any time, Harry,” said Riddle or Voldemort, or Tom, Harry supposed.

 

He smiled back.

 

*

 

“How did your date go?” Ginny asked as Harry walked back into the Gryffindor Corridor room. Harry blinked, blindsided by the sudden question. She must have been waiting in front of the entrance for him.

 

“Alright,” he managed.

 

Ginny’s eyes widened.

 

“No! I mean, yes, but it wasn’t a date.”

 

“I was worried for a moment there, Harry,” Ginny released a breath. “I can’t have Ron winning the bet against Hermione. That would just be _wrong.”_

For a moment Harry just looked at her, before he looked behind her and saw Ron and Hermione sitting in front of the fireplace, listening to their exchange furiously. Hermione even had a small notepad.

 

“I don’t believe this,” he mumbled, knowing it was a lie.

 

“Look,” said Ginny speaking more softly. “I’ve been thinking. It _can’t_ be him. Not the one from second year. Unless you were lying about what happened-“

 

“No!” objected Harry. “No, I did. I saw his expression when I stabbed the diary.” He stopped at the sudden remembrance. “He was terrified.”

 

“So it must be the real him,” Ginny said. “The real You-Know-Who. He obviously is here for a reason, and as he hasn’t terrorized the school just yet, it’s probably for information.”

 

“But we both know I don’t know anything-“

 

“But he _doesn’t_ ,” Ginny emphasized. “So go along with it. Who knows what might happen? You could persuade him to the good side.”

 

“Ginny…” Harry said helplessly.

 

The redhead wiggled her eyebrows, a small smirk on her lips. “I have some money riding on this, Harry. Don’t let me down.”

 

*

 

 

 

If at the beginning of September Harry had been told that he’d soon befriend the Dark Lord, he would’ve thought it tremendously funny. And he would’ve shipped the speaker off to St Mungo’s because, well… Lord Voldemort was a murderer. Lord Voldemort was insane. Lord Voldemort was sitting across from at a library desk, smiling at him, and asking how his day was.

 

Harry wanted to cry.

 

Alright, perhaps not to that extent. It was more that he sometimes had the urge to laugh hysterically at random intervals (and had done so) at the thought that _he was friends_ with Tom Riddle. And Harry actually liked the bastard.

 

Sometimes he amused himself with trying to see past the façade. When Tom was being particularly polite, especially to one of Harry’s friends, Harry could detect flashes of disdain in his eyes, a general aura of artifice, as if he was saying ‘ _You might think me harmless, but you know nothing. You are bugs.’_

 

And sometimes, when the receiver of this look was someone Harry disliked (like Malfoy or Pansy Parkinson), or if it was a friend acting obtuse, it made him want to smile. It made him want to catch Tom’s eye and speak to him, to say _‘I know you_.’ To ask ‘ _What do you want from me? Are you here to kill me? To hurt me? Then why haven’t you done so?’_

 

Of course Harry would never find the courage to actually do such a thing, even if he was in Gryffindor. Even if Tom had pushed his Potions grades up to Acceptable in a few weeks, even if Tom made him laugh and was nice to him, even if Harry never caught traces of disdain or artifice when Tom was talking to _him,_ Tom was Lord Voldemort. Tom might very well kill him.

 

Tom might very well kill Harry’s friends. That was a surefire way to hurt him.

 

That didn’t stop all of Gryffindor from believing the two were destined for each other. Regardless of the fact that it was Lord freaking Voldemort. Ginny and Hermione often quizzed him after his study ‘dates’, with Ron listening amusedly in the background.

 

“Did you he laugh at your jokes?”

 

“Well, yes but-“

 

“Did he compliment you?”

 

“I mean, yes but-“

 

“Did he smile at you when you walked in? Did he crack jokes and look at your face yearningly to see if you found it funny? Did he-“

 

“Yes okay! Stop asking me, it’s not like that!”

 

“So he _did_ look at you yearningly.”

 

“What? No!”

 

Hermione was particularly impressed with Tom’s intellectual and academic prowess. She often asked Harry what he had learnt each study session and was surprised when he could almost quote the entire session back at her. Harry left some things out though; she might take them the wrong way. For example, Tom’s subtle (but not to Harry) queries of Dumbledore, and if there was any hope of truly destroying ‘The Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard in the world.’

 

At that Harry _had_ laughed. He just _knew_ that Tom wanted to know about the Order of the Phoenix and all their terrible plans to destroy him. If only the Chosen One actually knew them. Harry felt a vague sympathy for the Dark Lord then. But he liked irritating Tom too much to stop.

 

“Well I think Dumbledore’s a fair bit more powerful than Voldemort. Don’t take me wrong; he’s great at being evil. But… we can’t let him be too arrogant.”

 

A vein, practically bursting in Tom’s forehead.

 

What Harry had enjoyed a great deal was that one study session that Hermione and Ron had come along to. They’d never actually met Tom, a thought that Harry couldn’t quite comprehend. Tom was _everywhere_ it seemed to him; it was difficult not to run into him, not to see him and exchange smiles from across the Great Hall, or as they passed each other in the corridor. But regardless, Harry knew Tom wasn’t looking forward to meeting Harry’s friends. He had that disdainful air about him, and occasionally shot small glares at Hermione as if finding her existence particularly problematic. It helped that Ron left, Harry supposed, but it did mean that all of Tom’s contempt converged on Hermione. Which wasn’t great for Hermione.

 

She didn’t seem aware of it, however, and was charmingly asking Tom to elaborate on important points, sometimes extending upon some magical theory herself. But it was like Tom hated her; he would shoot Hermione down, outsmart her at every turn, raise his eyebrows and then smirk at Harry. As if to say ‘ _Look at me. I’m smarter than her. I’m more intelligent than her. Look at me.’_

Harry thought it was all very inane, because Hermione was probably more than half Tom’s age, and where was the virtue in that? He also thought it was very funny. Oh Tom, he thought, glancing at those elegant hands as they waved and gestured and proved Hermione wrong about something. You really are too much.

 

 

*

 

Harry was having a nightmare. Everything had ghost-like tinge to it, all shadows and mist, as if nothing was real. And then, _he_ appeared. Tom. But it wasn’t Tom, because his eyes were scarlet and his voice was high and mocking, and Harry was afraid.

 

“Who do you think are?” the shadowy figure loomed closer, hissing at him. “The Chosen One? The Savior? The _Boy-Who-Lived?_ You know as well as I do that your titles mean _nothing!_ You are weak.”

 

Tom’s eyes glared down at him as if _Harry_ was a bug, and an ache started somewhere in his chest, something he’d only imagined before, something deep and sorrowful that made it hard to breathe.

 

He looked at Tom, and saw that the boy he knew had vanished, and there stood Voldemort, tall and pale and laughing. “ _Avada Kedavra!”_ He hissed.

 

Harry woke.

 

It was dark; he must have fallen asleep on the library desk again because his neck ached. A tall window stood beside him, and he looked through it, at the rolling Winter fog, the bruised, somber sky and oh God. The clouds were the colour of Tom’s eyes, he realized, all dark and shot through with weak sunlight. Dreary. Dim.

 

Divine.

Harry cast a quick tempus and sighed. He’d missed dinner, and Tom would be arriving any moment.

 

He didn’t want to see Tom. He’d been wearied down lately, his mind full of Dumbledore’s lessons, those _hauntingly_ tragic visions of a boy all alone, without anyone at all, and it made Harry remember smoke and mist and _those words…_

**_There are strange likenesses between us, after all._ **

**Even you must have noticed.**

**_Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles._ **

****

**Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts…**

****

**_…since the Great Slytherin himself_ ** _._

 

 

But he waited anyway. Too aware of the _aching_ in his chest.

 

Tom arrived soon enough; he was never late. As soon as he saw Harry, his face lit up in concern and his eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

 

Harry smiled weakly back, wondering how much of the worry was an act. “Oh, nothing too drastic, Tom,” he said.

 

Tom sat down across from him, still frowning. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You know you can tell me anything. I’m your friend, Harry.”

 

Well, he had to laugh at that. Surely Tom was laying it on a bit too thickly now. If he wasn’t careful, Harry might assume that he was pretending. (That he was laughing).

 

He laughed again. “I know Tom. But really, I’ve just had a long day. I’m fine.”

 

They worked with nary a word to each other, a thick silence seeming to drape over them. It was difficult to break, but Harry wanted to know suddenly. He didn’t care what the consequences were. His chest was twisting with a sharp cord he imagined cutting into his lungs and his heart and curling into his ribs, pulling so that they would cave in. It ached.

 

“Do you want to go on a walk?” he asked. “I’m not too anxious to sleep yet.”

 

“Now?” Tom said, appearing hopeful. “I’d be happy to, but my only worry is Filch.”

 

Harry grinned, suddenly excited. Tonight he would find out everything. Anticipation curled in his gut. “Don’t worry about that. I have just the thing. Let’s return our books to our dormitory, and I’ll meet you at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.”

 

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You know where the Slytherin Common Room is?”

 

Harry just smirked, refusing to answer. A sudden lightness had come over him (except for the aching) and he stood, suddenly desperate to begin. He bid Tom goodbye and raced up to the Gryffindor common room, only stopping to say hello to Ron before zooming back down to the Dungeon floor with his Invisibility Cloak. Tom was leaning against the wall beside the Slytherin Common Room entrance, his eyes closed. Harry stopped several meters away from the entrance, just watching. He gazed at the handsome face, the sharp cheekbones, the long eyelashes, the way Tom’s hair curled over his ear and he wanted to touch it. He inhaled then, and shook his head. He walked closer and revealed himself.

 

Tom squeaked in surprise.

 

“Come on,” Harry said, and grabbed his arm dragging him into the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. Dark Lords weren’t supposed to squeak _or_ blush. It was just… adorable.

 

He blinked, trying to distract himself.

 

Tom spoke. “This is a very good cloak,” he murmured to Harry. Harry noticed the press of Tom’s side then, and felt something settle inside of him. He felt calm.

 

“Yes I know,” he said. “It was my dad’s. A Potter heirloom this. Dumbledore gave it to me. My dad would’ve given it to me himself but… you know.”

 

Harry wondered if he was being too obvious, but he’d ceased to care. He stopped and grabbed Tom’s hands, wanting to caress each elegant finger. But he was distracted from that thought when he noticed how very _cold_ Tom was.

 

“Merlin,” he whispered, moving closer. “Your hands are freezing, Tom. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you out at this hour.” Perhaps he should have waited for the day, should have done this in front of a fireplace full of greedy flames. He looked into Tom’s eyes, wondering, and became memorized by them; those dark eyes, veined with sunlight, or maybe moonlight, all silvery and misty and beautiful.

 

Tom took a step back from him, looking down.

 

“Tom?”

 

“Harry,” Tom said, seeming to hesitate. It was the first time Harry had seen such indecision on him, and it looked… it looked real. “What do you… what do you think about him?”

 

“About whom?”

 

“Him. He Who Must Not Be Named.”

 

Harry froze, suddenly desperate. Why was Tom asking _now?_ And what would Harry say? This had been about finding out what Tom thought, not Harry but… Maybe he should just tell the truth. Just forget the consequences. He turned away and stared unseeingly at the castle wall, closing his eyes and remembering. Remembering the not-Tom of his dreams, the way the shadows had seemed to gulp and lick at him like tongues of flame, greedy and gluttonous. He was afraid of that.

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“You must despise him, surely.”

 

He told the truth, bracing himself. “You know… I really should. I do in a way. I hate how much pain he’s caused. How many families have been ruined for the selfish desires of just one man. But… you know, I was raised by muggles, right? Just like him. And just like him, I didn’t receive any love or care. The Dursleys hated magic. They tried to stamp it out of me. And I can remember, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling of my little cupboard, hating them, and wishing they would all just disappear, so that they couldn’t call me a freak anymore. And I think about Voldemort, who was once just a kid too, abused my muggles for being amazing, for having _magic_ , and I can’t hate him. I really can’t.”

 

Harry turned back to look at him, at Tom, who stood frozen and smiled. He smiled as widely as he could, trying to _tell_ him. “I just… I just want to go save that young Tom Riddle from the world. It’s just as evil, it seems to me.”

 

“Tom… Riddle?”

 

Harry grinned at him, feeling a lovely lightness pass through him. He was finally sharing _everything._ “That’s Voldemort’s real name, you know. He made an anagram of it, Tom Marvalo Riddle, as a teenager. He told me himself when I was in second year.”

 

Tom actually gaped at him, with his mouth open and his eyes wide. “He told you himself?”

 

“Not Voldemort,” Harry replied, softly. He remembered shadowed mist and vapor, and Ginny’s pale figure, lying on the Chamber floor. “A shadow of himself. The memory of Tom Riddle, trapped in a diary for fifty years.” Harry paused for a moment. “You know,” he said, stepping closer to Tom. He seemed to be frozen solid, more still than the statues of Hogwarts’ corridors. “The name Marvalo comes from his mother’s brother, from the Gaunt family. Descendants of Slytherin actually, but all gone mad. So I have to ask, Tom.” He paused, gazing at Tom’s shocked face, suddenly feeling anger pool in the pit of his stomach. “Did you really think that was subtle enough? I mean Tom Gaunt? Seriously? You must have thought it was hilarious. I had a few laughs myself, after the shock wore off.” He wasn’t smiling now.

 

“You know,” Tom murmured, his dark eyes appearing bright and vulnerable. Harry didn’t want to look; he looked anyway. “The whole time, you knew.”

 

“I recognized you, Tom Riddle,” Harry said, smiling a little at the memories, not feeling happy at all. “Dumbledore didn’t. McGonagall didn’t, but I did. So did Ginny actually.”

 

“The Weasley’s sister?” asked Tom, gaping at him.

 

“Yep. The diary possessed her before I destroyed it. She knew it very well. Much better than I did. I’m sure you cast some wicked spell so that no one could recognize you. But we never actually knew you so…” he shrugged, pretending to be casual. “What I don’t understand is why. I assumed you wanted Order secrets or whatnot, but you should know by now that I know nothing.” He wanted to know so badly.

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I didn’t understand,” Harry said helplessly. So utterly confused. “I still don’t. You could just _kill_ me. You’ve had plenty of chances. And… you’ve been so kind to me. Really. I know it was all just acting but…” he grimaced at the thought, feeling that ache appear again like his lungs were threatening to tear apart. “I’ve never actually been able to talk to someone. I mean, my friends listen to me because they care about the emotional health of the Boy Who Lived. But you’re the Dark Lord. You don’t care. But I’m sure you actually understand a lot of what I say to you. But maybe that’s just acting too.” Harry breathed deeply, looking at Tom right in the eye. Preparing to give it all up. “It’s your turn now. Kill me if you want. Answer my questions. I honestly don’t mind. Just don’t… Don’t hurt anyone.”

 

“I won’t kill you,” Tom said, and Harry felt his knees weaken, like he would veritably collapse with relief. “I swear it. But… I can’t answer your questions.”

 

Harry nodded, too relieved to be disappointed. Tom didn’t want to kill him. That had to mean something, right? “I should go,” he said, preparing to give up for now. “I’ll walk you back so Mrs Norris doesn’t catch you.” Though he supposed absently that Tom hardly needed supervision; he was the bloody Dark Lord after all.

 

But Harry didn’t want to give up the feeling of Tom’s side pressing against his. He didn’t want to say goodnight just yet, even if he couldn’t ask more questions.

 

When they arrived they arrived too soon. Harry regretted leaving so soon, but glancing at Tom’s pale face, still shocked and vulnerable, he couldn’t convince himself to stay. Surely, Tom wanted to be alone. He bid him goodnight and left, both fearing and hoping for morning.

 

 

*

 

“Did something happen on your date last night?” asked Hermione, raising an eyebrow at Harry at the breakfast table.

 

Harry sighed, too tired to correct her. “Why?”

 

“Your beau seems slightly moody,” Ginny chimed in, widening her eyes at him in an ‘I wonder why?’ expression.

 

Harry turned so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. It was with surprise that he observed that his friends were right. Tom sat by himself with seemingly nothing on his plate, just gazing downwards. A bolt of adrenaline shot through him like lightning and he was walking to the other side of the Great Hall hardly conscious of standing.

 

“Tom!” he called, watching with concern as the teen started.

 

“Harry?” Tom said, gazing at him. His eyes were wide, almost shocked, and Harry felt his throat tighten at the vulnerable expression. He didn’t care if it was acting, dammit. He was worried.

 

Tom stood and walked over to him, hardly glancing at his obviously disgruntled housemates. He met Harry’s eyes briefly, before looking away and merely gestured to the Great Hall’s entrance. Harry followed, having difficulty controlling the urge to touch him, to grab his wrist and ask him what his thoughts were, to have their breaths mingle, to brush Tom’s hair with his fingers. He barely looked away from him, only centered on that closed expression. The pale face. Guarded.

 

They came to a stop outside an unused classroom and Harry finally broke the silence. “Tom,” he said, feeling relief pool in his stomach when those eyes turned to meet his. “Tom, how are you?”

 

“What?” Eyes widened, shock? But why was it strange that Harry would ask, that he would worry? He wondered if he’d done something wrong, had bungled it all up spectacularly. Had last night been a mistake?

 

“I imagine you were rather shocked last night,” he tried, trying not to fidget. “I was really worried about you, you know.”

 

“Do you even remember who I am?” Tom asked seriously, his storm eyes intent on Harry’s face. His chest ached again, a sharp tug of the cord and he wondered how his lungs had space to breathe.

 

“Yes, I know,” he said, looking away. “I know. But…” Harry looked up, ignoring the ache, trying to just… to just _tell_ him. “You’re my friend. Even if it was all a lie. Even if you dream about murdering me in my sleep. I can’t… I can’t just give that up, you know?”

 

Tom should surely know by now.

 

“I won’t kill you.“

 

Again, that sweet, sickening relief.

 

“And it wasn’t.”

 

Harry looked up, confused.

 

“It wasn’t a lie.”

 

Harry wondered if it was possible for his ribs to break from a blooming heart. Because that’s what it felt like. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

 

*

 

If at the beginning of September Harry had been told that he’d soon fall in love with the Dark Lord, he would’ve cried for laughter. Because Lord Voldemort was a murderer. Lord Voldemort was insane. Lord Voldemort was pressed against his side, a shy smile creeping across his face and Harry wanted to kiss him.

 

 

Harry wanted to cry.

 

He hadn’t _meant_ to fall in love with the Dark Lord. He’d been happy with gooey friendship, a free Potions tutor, interesting conversation and a _tiny, minuscule, infinitesimal_ crush. Like an atom’s worth of crush maybe. Or a photon. He’d never understood much of Hermione’s science books.

 

But that was beside the point. It was one thing to know that Tom Riddle was the most perfect specimen in the universe. That wasn’t something that could be debated. No, no, Harry was fully aware of those moonlit lake eyes, the cheekbones, the _hair,_ the height, the broad lines of Tom’s chest against his Hogwarts robes, Merlin, the shoulders, and possibly the most lickable (because that _was_ a word) adam’s apple in the world.

 

It was another thing to see Tom’s shy smile, or his ‘You are all bugs’ expression, and to melt into a pile of goo on the floor.

 

So yes. Harry was in trouble. Harry was in love. With Tom. And he had absolutely no idea what to do.

 

“Sorry,” said Tom, shifting away so that they weren’t pressed together so tightly. They were in Transfigurations class, practicing a charm Harry had forgotten in Tom’s proximity, and Tom’s cheeks had turned the faintest bit pink.

 

It was… Harry knew he was going to die. The Dark Lord would murder him after all.

 

“That’s alright,” he said emphatically, trying to communicate just _how_ alright it was.

 

Tom nodded at him, and for a moment Harry thought he understood, before he realized that the tall Slytherin had gone back to paying attention to Professor McGonagall. Harry wilted, feeling disappointment churn in his gut like a blender. It was pointless. What would his arch nemesis want with him? He wasn’t talented or powerful or even that handsome. He wasn’t anything compared to Tom.

 

Harry remembered that dream suddenly, the one where Tom’s eyes had been scarlet and his face cruel. Who do you think are? he thought to himself, remembering. The Chosen One? The Savior?

 

The _Boy-Who-Lived?_

**You are weak.**

 

 

 

*

 

Tom had gone missing. They’d regularly agreed to meet after breakfast to walk to class together, hands touching every so often if Harry was extremely lucky, but today, Tom wasn’t at breakfast. Harry watched the Slytherin table all morning, eyes narrowed in concern.

 

“Is everything alright, Harry?” Hermione asked him. Her worried tone caught Ginny’s attention. The redhead shifted, eyeing Harry speculatively, before moving closer to sit beside him.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” she asked brightly, her eyes betraying her seriousness.

 

Harry sighed. His friends knew him too well not to notice his pining. All of Gryffindor house had bets on when he and Tom would ‘get together’. Only Harry knew that it futile. Not even Ginny seemed to realize.

 

“He’s not at breakfast,” said Harry, eyes drifting back to where Tom normally sat.

 

“Harry,” said Ginny. “You should go talk to him.”

 

Harry looked at her, before glancing at Hermione. Her forehead was furrowed as she listening, obviously knowing there was something she was unaware of.

 

“It’s…” he shook his head. “Ginny, you _know_ this. He couldn’t possibly-“

 

“If you don’t go find him and confess,” butted in Ron, who Harry only then realized was listening in too, “I’ll quit being Keeper.”

 

Harry gaped at him, before Ginny laughed and he gaped at her.

 

“I agree,” she said, smiling. “Merlin, I agree with my brother. I know what you think, Harry.” She looked up at him. “But you’re wrong.”

 

Harry hesitated only for a moment, before standing and walking out of the Great Hall. He was tempted to go to his dormitory and use the Marauder’s Map but… grimacing, his heart thudding, he walked to the same empty classroom they’d been before, the same one where Tom had said it wasn’t all a lie.

 

He was right. Tom was standing at the window, and even when it obvious that he knew Harry was there, he didn’t turn. For a moment, Harry was struck and couldn’t speak. It happened sometimes. He looked at Tom and couldn’t move for how gorgeous the boy looked. It made something in him crumble like burnt pastry, falling apart and it _hurt._ It took him a moment to speak.

 

“Tom? You weren’t at breakfast.”

 

But there was no immediate reply, and concern rose him. “Tom?”

 

He walked closer, worrying, hesitating as he invaded Tom’s space, but too worried to care. He moved so that he could see Tom’s face, all cold and stiff like ice. “Tell me what’s wrong?” Harry murmured to him, and Tom closed his eyes. “Tom?”

 

At last he responded. “I am very angry.” The reply was slow but stilted, as if it took great effort to even say that much.

 

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “At whom?”

 

Tom laughed but it was empty, as empty as his expressionless face. “Only myself.”

 

Harry couldn’t move for Tom’s eyes were on his now, his warm breath on his face, and it felt like something was shattering, like it was breaking and then…

 

Tom kissed him.

 

Elegant fingers were brushing through his hair, caressing his scalp like it was priceless. Warm lips parted his own and Harry imagined that he really had died, perhaps this was a dream, or paradise, but his lungs ached from lack of air and could this be real? Those gorgeous hands came to rest on his shoulders, and Tom pulled back to look at him. Harry gazed back, eyes impossibly wide, caught in those glittering grey eyes. And Tom was kissing him again, Harry was all heat and fire and then it was over.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tom gasped, and Harry noted that his pupils were blown, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving, gasping. “Forgive me. Please,” Tom said, obviously desperate and backing away now, horrified. Ashamed. “You were just so close I…” Eyes closing.

 

Harry released a rattling breath, and inhaled again, so terribly hopeful it hurt. “Tom,” he said, feeling unreal. “Tom, do you care for me?” he asked incredulously. But something inside of him was blooming, something warm and terrifying but oh so gorgeous.

 

Tom took a deep breath. It struck Harry in the chest like an arrow. “How can you _not_ know? Can’t you see how I… how I… crave your attention? Your… your touch? You… how can you not _know?”_

Oh God, thought Harry. This is really happening. To me. This is happening to me. He stepped forward, and brought his hand up to Tom’s forehead, caressing the hair falling across it. He smiled at how soft it was. “I can’t believe this is real,” he whispered, unable to stop himself from grinning. He could see Tom’s own incredulous face, and thought it wonderful. “I never imagined,” he whispered, “that you would feel the same as me.”

 

“What?”

 

Why, thought Harry, is the Dark Lord so phenomenally cute? Was it just him? Surely no one else could think otherwise. He gazed at Tom’s awestruck face, thinking that no one _would_ think otherwise. Not if Harry could help it.

 

Tom was all his.

 

He smiled again, answering. “You’re the Dark Lord. He Who Must Not Be Named. How could… How could you ever actually… feel the same? It was impossible, I thought. You were probably dreaming about killing me whereas I…” He didn’t think he wanted to admit just yet to some of _those_ dreams.

 

Tom, some indefinable expression in his eyes, lifted his hand up to Harry’s cheeks. “Never,” he said.

 

Harry had to laugh again. “Oh God, Hermione is going to be so pissed.”

 

“Hmm?” Something dangerous in Tom’s tone.

 

“Not like that! She bet on Christmas Eve, see?”

 

Understanding dawned on Tom’s face before he smirked wickedly. “Harry, how long have you been wanting to kiss me for?”

 

Harry flushed. “Not before you tell me!”

 

Tom leaned closer so his breath brushed across Harry’s cheek and he shivered. “Since you smiled at me,” Tom whispered, and Harry melted right then and there.

 

“Bollocks,” he muttered, and pulled Tom in for another kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
